


Layers

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, M/M, No Sex, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 19:46:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He enjoys studying the layers, the minute reactions as he peels off each in turn.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Layers

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask where this came from. It just did.

He doesn't like John undressing himself. Instead, he removes each article of clothing with a careful touch. He folds them all, even if, in the morning, John will bundle them up and toss them in the hamper. For now, he enjoys studying the layers, the minute reactions as he peels off each in turn.

John has grown more patient with this ceremony, though some nights he still shifts and squirms impatiently under Sherlock's glancing touch and eyes. He doesn't argue or complain anymore though, no matter how frustrated he grows. He understands this is important to Sherlock, though he could never guess how or why. He sits, patient or not, in silence. Sometimes he watches back, and Sherlock never misses that.

For him, each piece of fabric holds meaning—beyond the wear of the thread, the stains from that day and days long ago, the worry on the cuffs that tells him how many troubling patients John has seen in the days he has worn this shirt. He does that, after a patient leaves, one he was unable to help—usually they are sent for more tests, referred to specialists, given a sincere apology that he couldn't do more for them. He sits at his desk after finishing his paperwork and rubs his left thumb over his right wrist, wearing marks unnoticeable from afar. The spots speak endlessly to Sherlock this close.

Tonight, John is still. He sits with military patience, his breathing consciously measured. There is a stain on his right cuff—salad dressing, a raspberry vinaigrette he couldn't quite wash out. These little insights into his days at the surgery tell Sherlock enough. He moves a little quicker than he would like, though not enough that John might notice. John stands as if he were on auto drive when it comes to his trousers and pants. He sits when Sherlock has pulled both to his knees, moves his legs in time with Sherlock's fingers as Sherlock pulls off the last layers.

With no attention to formality, he strips his own clothes as John stretches out on the bed.

"Not tonight," John mutters as his eyes slide shut.

Sherlock leaves his trousers and pants with his shirt, in a pile beside the delicate stack of John's layers. He drops into bed and moulds into John's side. "I know." He nestles his head into John's shoulder. He doesn't have to repeat himself—he can already feel John shifting against him—but he does anyway, "I know."

John slides a hand under Sherlock and wraps him up tight. His breath falters from the military march and he buries his dry face into the curve of Sherlock's neck.

There are still layers there—layers of flesh, muscle, sinew, and bone. Sherlock would like to X-ray his body some day, especially that shoulder. But he doesn't need to, not for this, not to know how John's day went, how much John needs him—needs to hold him, to hold something, root himself in something he knows and understands and will never let down. He will never let Sherlock down. That is what he says without words or sounds as he clings to his lover, tensing as Sherlock moves, subconsciously afraid he has let down the one person he needs always to protect, to save.

But Sherlock only shifts enough to take hold of the blankets and cover them both. The he relaxes his muscles one by one, growing limp in John's arms, letting him hold on so hard that it becomes uncomfortable. Sherlock lets him without voicing complaint. He doesn't mind. John needs it.

And when John's limbs relax around him at last, his shattered breath evening out into sleep, Sherlock studies his body in the dark, long fingers measuring the knotted muscles beneath the skin, wondering what invisible scars are layered below.


End file.
